<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Are you there, Ghost? It's me, Meg by CertifiedFreakLV426</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151522">Are you there, Ghost? It's me, Meg</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CertifiedFreakLV426/pseuds/CertifiedFreakLV426'>CertifiedFreakLV426</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drama &amp; Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, February Fanfic Challenge, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:21:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,543</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CertifiedFreakLV426/pseuds/CertifiedFreakLV426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Meg's world, and they're all just living in it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was growing late, but Meg’s mother had business to attend to before they departed, and knew Meg wished to have time to practice alone. Meg heard noise coming from within the room where the rehearsal had been held, and approached it with more curiosity than caution. She did not pay much mind to the rumored ghostly presence at the opera, and even if she did, she did not think a ghost would be clumsily moving about a rehearsal room. She felt slightly irritated when she saw who it was, even if she knew that was not really fair. It was the new dancer. The one who seemed, at every turn, to find new and fascinating ways to make simple movements as awkward as they could possibly be.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg knew there were many who looked for every opportunity to credit her advancement to her mother’s placement. Her mother was not the only teacher, to be sure. But she worked, sometimes alone, sometimes with her mother, before and after class, not only to advance, but to perfect. She knew, even if she should have the career her mother wished for her, it would not last so very long, all things considered, and who knew if an injury might bring an end to it even more quickly? As much as Meg enjoyed the excitement of performances, and the backstage intrigues that always seemed to accompany them, she found she often enjoyed the aspects of practicing that so many people seemed to find tedious. It was so often something quite small that could make all the difference in a movement, in a dancer’s success, and she had not yet grown tired of watching it happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did not know that any such thing would happen any time soon for this new addition. She had overheard some of the other dancers regarding her with a sort of gleeful pity. They liked to look good in comparison. “I suppose she is pretty enough, even if she is--so pallid, but...not very good, is she?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg had watched out of the corner of her eye, all of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a way one moved when one was intent on seeming that they did not overhear themselves being discussed, and -- as much as Meg was irritated with the girl’s presence, because she really did not warrant her place, she disliked that. The girl -- it was somewhat strange to think of her like that, for Meg knew she was at least two years older than herself, but then she seemed so young at times -- knew her place wasn’t deserved. She knew it had been paid for, and worked to make up for it. That counted for something. She was here now, working away at a part of the choreography that had landed her the distinction of being singled out in class, as an example of what not to do. Meg hadn’t been able to look directly at her, but had watched in the mirror instead. She hadn’t cried. She had come close, Meg was sure. But she hadn’t cried. There was a time Meg would have cried. She had cried. There was nothing worse, in front of the class, half of them pitying, half of them silently crowing over it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was it, exactly? Meg stayed by the door, unseen by the other girl. Her name was Christine. She was -- working at it so very hard. Too hard. It must look effortless, and at the rate Christine was going -- the harder she tried, the more laborious it looked. Meg tilted her head and thought it had to be something she was doing with her balance, or--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine looked up, then, and saw her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg straightened, as she had every right to be there, and tried to look as though she had not been spying. She hadn’t, really. Just--assessing. She smiled and nodded politely, and found her own place, giving the other girl plenty of space, and began to practice as she had intended. She became aware that Christine was watching her. Let her watch. If it helped. But it was distracting, as much as Meg wished it were not. She didn’t know why. It was not as though she felt -- judged. She reflected that she had overheard the other girl singing, once or twice -- why had she been here so late? She had believed herself to be alone, by the sound of it. People sang differently when they believed themselves to be alone. It was a pleasant song, in a language Meg was not familiar with -- Norwegian, or something like it -- and her voice, if unremarkable, was...nice. It was more enjoyable to hear her sing than to watch her dance, for at least she did not strain so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Christine had returned to her own practice, and was moving through the troublesome passage again. It was all Meg could do not to stop and watch her. She had the movements, she had the understanding of what her placement ought to be--how could she manage, each time, to--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg could not stand it, and approached Christine, who smiled--it was nowhere near her eyes--and looked down. Meg felt sorry for shy people, and irritated by them, and ashamed for being irritated by them. Sometimes all of it at once. Often. Now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It really does not come naturally to everyone,” said Christine, retaining the small, forced smile. She could not look Meg directly in the eye. Meg hoped she had not done or said anything, personally, that Christine would have -- had she? She supposed she had not stopped anyone else. But then she had also supposed Christine would advance in time and someone else would become the focus of those who wished for distinction by comparison. But that was unhelpful to think of now. </span>
</p><p><span>“Try--look.” Meg stood in front of her and demonstrated her way of working through it. “Do you see how this leg is -- your balance is not quite -- look at me. It is a very slight difference but it does make a difference. Yes. That is much closer. Now try. Do you see? It makes a difference.” Christine attempted the passage again, with a bit more success if not with a great amount of fluidity. She looked to Meg, for some reassurance, and this time her smile at least resembled being pleased. But it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.<br/>
<br/>
</span> <span>“Why are you helping me?” Christine asked. Meg blinked. She was not used to such direct questions, and Christine was looking at her with such an open, receptive expression that she felt uncomfortable without knowing why.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I--” Meg did not know why she would, she supposed, but then she also did not know why she would not.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I don’t like to see anyone struggle with -- anything they need not struggle with?”</span></p><p><span>“You shouldn’t really want me to improve, though,” said Christine. She started to practice the movement again and then stopped, somewhat cautious. As though it were a trap. Meg began to feel guarded, as well.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“...why would I not want you to improve?”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“You are--very--” Christine did not know how to praise another dancer, a younger dancer, without making herself ridiculous. Did it physically hurt to be so shy, Meg wondered. It sometimes looked as though it did.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“You are very skilled, as well you know, and it will show all the more if you are dancing alongside someone who--dances like me.”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>Meg felt insulted for a moment, but then reflected that Christine really did not seem capable of having aimed that at her intentionally.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Who wishes only to be good by comparison? Try it again.” If the authority in Meg’s voice was strange coming from someone younger than herself, Christine seemed to think nothing of it. Meg was the far superior dancer, and she was grateful for the instruction. Meg considered this as she watched Christine -- improve? Yes. It was an improvement. Some people would not want help from someone younger, others might not trust her not to tell her mother -- tell her mother what? People had strange ideas. Her mother wished for the overall quality of the ballet to improve as much as anyone else. </span></p><p>
  <span>“I will never--” Christine faltered. She had no doubt been told, many times, not to be self-defeating, but could not help herself. “There is a sort of internal understanding of the movement, I think, that I--do not have. I do not know if it can be learned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg nodded, for she understood what Christine was referring to. “I could not say. But -- even there, just now, that is a great improvement.” It was quiet between them for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for it,” said Christine, and her smile reached her eyes, this time, however briefly. Just then, Madame appeared in the doorway. She regarded her daughter and Christine pleasantly enough, if not warmly. She was not one for open displays of warmth. Meg looked at Christine and raised an eyebrow. Christine, understanding, bit her lip and looked somewhat nervous, but nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have been working at that -- bit that gave her some trouble, earlier,” said Meg. “May we show you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother gave a slight nod, and watched impassively as Christine demonstrated what s</span>
  <span>he had not been able to do earlier. She was rewarded with another nod from Madame Giry. “It is an improvement,” she said. “Come, Meg.”</span>
</p><p><span>Meg began to follow her mother out, and then stopped and turned back.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“We always arrive quite early, you know. I like to begin before everyone else arrives.”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I know,” said Christine. “You are--very diligent.”</span></p><p><span>Meg smiled to herself, and felt -- not exactly protective of her, but somehow fond. Christine was by no means dull, but Meg supposed she had been taught never to presume, and saw she must be quite clear.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“...I am inviting you to join me if you would like to join me. You do not have to. But you are welcome. The room does not belong to me.” </span></p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Christine was surprised, but pleased. “I--yes. I would like to.”</span>
</p><p><span>Again, Meg began to follow her mother, who was now waiting in the doorway somewhat impatiently, out, but then stopped. She heard her mother’s huff of breath, letting her know that she was beginning to irritate her.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Where do you live,” asked Meg. It was not so very dark -- but Meg and her mother would be taking the carriage home together. Where on earth the money for a regular carriage came from, she could not say, but it was her mother’s affair. She recalled that Christine lived with some sort of -- aunt, or relation, somewhat nearby -- and when she confirmed this, Meg turned to her mother and said “Is it not best she should accompany us, then? It is quite close.”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>To say it was quite close was not entirely accurate, but Madame Giry did not wish any of her students to be finding their way home alone, and said that of course she must join them for for god’s sake, be quick about it.</span></p><p>
  <span>When they were seated in the carriage, Meg chattered to Christine about the various goings on that she found interesting, her mother did not, or claimed she did not, and Christine was happy enough to listen to. There was a sort of balance in play, for Meg was aware she could seem quite young if she allowed herself to prattle on, and Christine was content to listen, warmly, even if she was quiet. She seemed to have been brought up well enough, even if no one could really say where she came from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There seems to be a great deal happening at any given time,” said Christine, with some reserve. But Meg sensed she was interested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” said Meg. “There is. There most certainly is. And do you know--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg liked to tell a story. “We EVEN have--a ghost!”</span>
</p><p><span>“Meg,” said her mother in a warning tone, as Christine tilted her head and looked at Meg curiously.</span> <span></span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meg and Christine on an unremarkable Saturday.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I admit to second thoughts. At times,” Christine said. She was sitting with her left leg bent and her right leg stretched out. She was rotating her ankle and looking with some displeasure at her foot. Meg had seen worse, often on her own feet, which she currently had pressed together as she leaned forward as far as she could, but there was no denying that to even be only in the chorus, for long enough, was to accept mangled feet as an unavoidable part of life. It was a Saturday morning, and they had obtained Madame Giry’s leave to make their way to one of the smaller rehearsal rooms to practice. Christine was improving at a steady pace, with a great deal of practice and Meg’s encouragement -- working through it in the company of only one’s friend gave her an ease about it which seemed to do at least as much as the repetition. For her part, there were things Meg was working at, with her mother’s guidance, that she was pleased to show Christine, who was always admiring of it without a hint of jealousy. She seemed pleased to be doing well enough in the chorus that she was no longer the object of anyone’s focus, but the question of whether or not this was worth the sacrifice of one’s feet was fair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of their practice, Meg had shown Christine the chorus part she had danced in the most recent gala, which had included an extended scene from the second act of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gisele</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p><span>“Of course it is nothing impressive without the whole of the stage, and the costumes, with just me,” she said, but Christine shook her head.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Yes, it is! I could not do it--”</span></p><p>
  <span>She should have known better than to say this, for of course Meg made her attempt part of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a good deal more graceful now,” said Meg. It was true. Even without the musical accompaniment, Christine took to the fairly short part Meg had shown her -- one of the simpler parts, but none of it was that simple -- with ease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have always liked the story,” said Christine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wish to be one of the dancing betrayed ghost maidens,” said Meg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who would not?” exclaimed Christine. “Although of course -- and do not make me attempt such a thing, Meg, but certainly one wishes most of all to be Gisele.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no.” Meg shook her head. “Myrtha.” She sat down and began her stretching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Myrtha over Gisele?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p><span>“Why?”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Because it is better.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“How is it better? She has but the one scene--”</span>
</p><p><span>“Yes, and makes up a good deal of the second act, Christine.”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>Christine considered this. “I cannot see anyone dancing the part being disappointed in it,” she said, “But I had much rather be Gisele.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“I am sure you would,” said Meg, leaning to one side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Myrtha is angry, and vengeful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is why it would be a great deal of fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine thought Meg’s idea of what would be great fun on stage was different than hers, but she thought Meg would make a splendid Myrtha one day, and said so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also,” said Meg, “whoever dances that role does not have to pretend to stab herself with the most ridiculous looking sword. I have never seen it done in a way that did not send me into a fit of laughter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine did not know how many times Meg could possibly have seen this in her not so terribly many years, but she said “I have heard she sometimes collapses from a weak heart, and then she does not even need a sword.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg considered this. “Weak,” she said, and offered no further explanation. Christine tried to mirror Meg’s movements in her stretching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An extremely loud thudding noise came from the room above them, which was some sort of office. The two looked at each other. “Has someone fallen?” wondered Christine.<br/>
<br/>
“That, or a piece of furniture,” said Meg. “I hope no one is--”</span>
</p><p><span>There was another thud, and they both looked up at the same time.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Has someone--broken in?” whispered Christine. </span></p><p><span>“I--I don’t know, said Meg--<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>They were still looking at each other with some concern when there was another thud, followed by a rhythmic scraping noise, as though a heavy piece of furniture were moving back and forth across the floor of the room above them, accompanied by moaning. The concern left their faces as Meg started shaking with silent laughter and Christine covered her face in her hands. “Oh no,” she whispered. She parted her fingers and looked at Meg as the noises continued, shaking her head. She moved her hands and mouthed “Who IS that?”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I don’t know,” mouthed Meg in return.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Why are we whispering,” asked Christine, and before Meg could answer, a scream from above sent them into another fit of laughter. The cacophony did not last very much longer, and soon enough they heard footsteps and a door shutting. Christine was laughing so hard that there were tears in her eyes, and she fanned her face with her hands. Meg regarded this with some interest. Her friend seemed very...chaste. When Christine had calmed herself and seen that Meg was watching her, seeming to read her expression with an observant efficiency, she said “I do understand how it is in theatres and operas, Meg. And I am older than you. Not by much. Still--”</span></p><p>
  <span>And she took a drink from the glass of water she had fetched earlier, and pushed Meg’s, which was untouched toward her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will feel poorly if you do not drink that,” she admonished her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you understand,” asked Meg, with some interest, taking a drink as urged “About how it is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine considered this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That one must be cautious and--not concern oneself too greatly with anyone else’s business. Whoever that was did not sound--so very young, though I suppose one cannot tell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg had her own reasons for being unconcerned about any advances from the various patrons of the opera, and various other sorts of young men who managed to find their way back behind the stage and into dressing rooms and dark corners and hallways, but she had wondered if it might be kind to -- explain certain things to her shy friend. Though as Christine hardly spoke to anyone but Meg, and only then when they were alone, or in the presence of her mother, there was little chance of her being enticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is very kind of you to make her your pet,” another dancer, Cecily, had said to Meg somewhat candidly earlier that week, taking care that Christine was out of earshot, as Meg’s expression challenged her immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not sure what you mean by that,” Meg had said, and it was one of the few times pausing to consider her response was unlikely to have changed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--mean nothing unkind in it,” Cecily had said, “only that it must be--rather a project.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg had only turned and looked at her. She supposed she had not seen so very much of Cecily, or her other friends in the ballet as of late, but then -- she was not their only friend. The times she had gone to visit one of them, or met for a walk, or a flavored ice, Christine had declined to join, and Meg had not pressed her on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I only mean it must be like speaking to a wall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I do not know how you say that without meaning at least some unkindness,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>thought Meg, but having taken a moment to reflect before speaking--this time--she said, with some defensiveness, “she is merely very shy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is evident enough. And of course--I am sure there is nothing wrong with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was evident enough to Meg that Cecily did see something wrong with it, and therefore did not see the point in trying to explain it to Cecily any further. Cecily was not not malicious, but she liked an audience, and did not know what to make of anyone who looked at the ground, or to the side, or anywhere but directly at her when she was speaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thought on this again as they left the opera, and Christine saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. “Oh--” she exclaimed “Maria--” and she took off after the wardrobe woman, although they had been on their way to obtain something for lunch, as Meg had suddenly felt extremely hungry after their practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg caught up with Christine and watched, and listened, in dumb amazement, as her friend conversed with Marie--or was it Maria--About the intricacies of the trimming and beading of a gown for the soprano, La Carlotta. It was something about a very rare sort of material that would be delivered, any day now, from Milan, and the time it would take to sew in each bead--Christine listened intently, and murmured over the different types of stitching that would be required until Meg exclaimed that she felt so very weak that she was sure she must faint if she did not eat something, and all but dragged Christine away, as Christine called over her shoulder “--do let me know when it arrives, Maria, I shall want to see it up close at least once--” before Meg took her arm with such energy that she had no choice but to move forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you cannot possibly be that ravenous, Meg, even if I did not work quite as hard as you did,” Christine reproached her. “And you might at least greet Maria by her name, as there is not one garment in the building that goes untouched by her.”</span>
</p><p><span>“I do not know her name!”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“You know it now!” exclaimed Christine, as they stepped out into the light. She regarded Meg’s consternation with amusement.</span></p><p>
  <span>“We are fetching you something to eat, what is it that is wrong with you?”</span>
</p><p><span>“When did you talk to Marie?”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Maria. I don’t know--this week, last week--I have spoken with her several times now, and she really has had the most fascinating history of--”</span></p><p>
  <span>Christine stopped, as Meg was now staring at her with her head tilted to one side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I ran into her--oh, yes, I almost caused her to fall, her arms were quite full--I was on the way back from the washing room, running quite a bit faster than I should have--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is why you were away from class so long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. But now I speak to her after, when you are--speaking with your friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg looked straight ahead and stood still, for a moment, before beginning to walk. Christine quickened her pace to catch up.</span>
</p><p><span>“What can you be making that face about?”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I cannot persuade you to take a quarter of an hour to sit in the park with one or two other girls who you dance with nearly every day of the week and yet you will frolic about the theatre accosting seamstresses--”</span></p><p>
  <span>“It would be longer than a quarter of an hour and I do not accost anyone.” Christine said this serenely and Meg decided that perhaps giving it several moments, as well as finding something to eat, could not hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they were seated on a bench with their assortment of treats, Meg asked “What is it about the girls in the class that you -- Christine, you speak freely enough with those children you are so fond of, and you are at ease among people who work among the costumes, and--I believe I saw you conversing with a stagehand just the other day, I forgot it until now and was sure I had imagined it, but I see I have not, I am sure you never saw any of these before in your life--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meg, we see them almost every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what is it about the girls in the class? I know it was a bit hard at first, but that is simply the way of it, it was not--nothing was meant personally.” She paused, and swallowed. “And for my part, if I ever--I truly never meant to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Meg, of course not,” said Christine, in between bites of her baguette. “And that -- has nothing to do with it. Or--very little to do with it. One simply cannot help who one is at ease with.” She shrugged, and seemed to think this was the end of it. “It troubles you a good deal more than it should, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” began Meg, and then thought on it. It did trouble her. She wished others to see her friend as she did. But although Christine was shy around most people, she could also be extremely stubborn, and Meg could see that pushing the matter in this way was unlikely to move her if it had not already. She would have changed the subject, but Christine got there before her.</span>
</p><p><span>“Who on earth,” she considered, eyeing the cheese they had selected “do you suppose we overheard?”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>There were too many people that Meg could think of within seconds, so she said “I could not to begin to imagine. Perhaps it was the ghost.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Christine laughed in a way that threatened to choke her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure I never heard of that sort of ghost.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nor I, but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mother puts quite an abrupt halt to it any time she overhears you,” said Christine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She does, and I could not say why. But then she is strange. She is my mother, and I love her dearly, but -- she is strange. At times I feel I am more in the world than she is. That is perhaps not the best way to put it, but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it--” Christine was thinking on this. “It is. There is a sense to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And as long as I have known of the opera,” continued Meg,  “Even before I danced, there were--rumors. And from those I would not think it likely that--well, for one thing he is supposed to be hideously ugly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot recall hearing of any ghost appearing otherwise. Not that I believe in any such thing,” Christine added with some haste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have heard of many very beautiful ghosts, but they are always ladies. Children who are ghosts are sad and frightening and precious. Men who are ghosts are hideously ugly, I believe that is generally how it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you do not truly believe in any such thing, of course.” Christine was looking at her intently, and seemed to want Meg’s company in vehemently denying even the possibility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but--” she did not want to frighten Christine, except that she did. Just slightly. It was all good fun. In the sun, in the light, in the park, blocks away from the opera.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span>, from time to time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” asked Christine, and Meg resented her tone, as she suspected Christine was regarding her as childlike in this moment. Meg sat up and gazed into the distance, shaking her head slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I really could not say." She affected a bored tone. " I could not say it because it would <em>frighten</em> you and that would be unkind.” Meg smiled as one smiles at a small child, and smiled all the more at her friend’s reaction. Christine did not always receive well the attitude and speech she sometimes bestowed on others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me of it,” Christine insisted.</span>
</p><p><span>“I really do not think I can,” said Meg.</span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span> <span>“Meg--”</span></p><p>
  <span>“I will not. No. It would trouble you. You would not be able to sleep and it would be my fault.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This continued until they left the park and drew near to their respective homes, and Meg suppressed something that would have looked like a smirk to Christine, and said “I am actually not very good at telling these sorts of stories, but--Cecily is. You know Cecily. And I am sure that next time we make a trip together for a--tart, or perhaps simply a walk -- she would be ever so pleased to tell you of all she has seen and heard, which is a good deal more than anyone else I can think of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will consider it,” said Christine, after a moment. Meg could not help but feel that this was a small--a very small--sort of a victory. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Book Club &amp; Foreshadowing with Meg and Christine, Write The Least Subtle PhanPhic Possible Challenge</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>“I never heard anything so foul,” said Meg. “I hate him.” She starred Christine directly in the face and ate a biscuit.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“You </span><em><span>hate</span></em><span> him,” said Christine. “No, you do not mean--”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“You do not tell me how I feel about it!” returned Meg, who stared at her friend for another long moment before picking up a lump of sugar, flicking it, and launching it easily into Christine’s teacup. It hardly made a splash. Christine looked down at it.</span></p><p><span>“And now you are throwing food,” she said. “I do not know how you think that -- will make me agree with you, that </span><em><span>you</span></em><span> are the better judge of--”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I am not throwing food,” said Meg, “You wished for more sugar in your tea and now you have it.” Meg laughed into her own tea as she brought it to her mouth.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Your face, Christine,” she said. “If you could but see yourself. You are upset! You are emotional. You are angry with me--yes, you begin to be angry, I see you--because I am telling you how I feel, which is that this is a story about an extremely foul man with nothing redeeming about him that I could see--”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“You chose not to see it,” said Christine, sitting up straight, and stirring the sugar into her tea. “But many others saw it. I saw it. And Jane saw it.” Christine ate her own biscuit and gazed into the distance, sitting up straighter and inhaling deeply, as though she were much put upon. </span></p><p><span>“I am going to tell you,” said Meg, setting her cup down, as she reached for more water, which Christine handed to her before she could ask, “--that the men in these stories are made of garbage from the ground up as long as you insist on choosing stories that are about men who are made of garbage from the ground up.” She might have let it go there, but there was one thing about this particular story that had made her think that surely--surely her friend would not defend this, of all things--<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Really, Christine,” she said--her friend liked tea more than she did, but Meg was learning to accept it, so long as she could get the balance of the milk and sugar right--”you and I do not feel the same way, exactly, about--virtue. The importance of it. I think you and Jane feel very similarly about it. And this is why I was sure you would feel somewhat differently about this book. He was never going to be sorry! He was sorry because he was caught and sorry for all that followed but he was prepared to marry her, or to pretend to marry her, and live a lie, and have taken something of extremely great value to her and--I do not understand how to believe he had such a very great love for her if he was willing and ready to take something so treasured by her and never--”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“But that is not what happened,” said Christine, as though exerting a great deal of patience, and Meg sighed. She could see she was going to get nowhere, and it was times like these she was glad her friend seemed to have no interest in the patrons of the opera, who would almost certainly prove themselves reminiscent of Edward Rochester soon enough if given the opportunity. Granted, none of them were keeping first wives locked up in their attics.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>That one knew of.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>Heathcliff. Edward Rochester. William Dobbin. Christine had protested with great spirit at Meg’s assessment of “Vanity Fair.” She had expected, and understood her friend’s loathing of George Osbourne, but what could she possibly have against William?<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“He spent the whole book--<em>whimpering</em> over Amelia’s taste in men and in the end I think she only married him because she was--tired,” Meg had said, and Christine had given her an exasperated look over her cup. They enjoyed the discussing of their books over tea even if they yet to mutually enjoy a book the other had chosen. Christine had looked even more exasperated upon Meg’s declaration that Becky Sharp, now she, <em>she</em> was a protagonist of a novel.</span></p><p>
  <span>“She is an antagonist,” said Christine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Christine, your vocabulary is superior. Don’t brag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not bragging! There is a difference between an antagonist and a protagonist, you know this as well as I, seeing any given opera, one--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose, but -- well, she got things </span>
  <em>
    <span>done</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Meg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is the most dreadful person!” exclaimed Christine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So is every single man in these books,” thought Meg. “And yet.” And yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some weeks ago, Meg had found a delightful new game -- she thought so, anyway. When walking with her friend, she would exclaim, sometimes exuberantly, as though she had happened to look upon something very beautiful, sometimes quietly, as though gazing upon a very soft, small animal “Oh--oh, Christine--look, look over there--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, without fail, Christine would turn, and her gaze would follow where her friend pointed. And it was always a bin containing trash, or something lying in the gutter, or some such thing, and Meg would say, placidly, “There. That’s him. That’s your husband.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sometimes Christine would look at Meg, and sometimes she would shake her head and look away, as Meg laughed delightedly to herself.</span>
</p><p><span>“I cannot wait until you have grown tired of that,” Christine would say.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I really do not know when I will,” was Meg’s answer.</span></p><p>
  <span>There was absolutely no question in Meg’s mind that Heathcliff was the worst of all.</span>
</p><p><span>“But consider his life, Meg,” Christine had implored her. “Everything leading up to--”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Many people have had difficulties--”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“DIFFICULTIES--”</span></p><p>
  <span>“And managed not to be the worst person alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is not the worst person alive. He is a fictional character.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is the worst person alive or in fiction. That is certainly a distinction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Initially Meg had been willing to believe that perhaps something was lost in the translation, but such a pattern emerged that she could not suppose it mattered too greatly. Christine’s turn came when Meg chose the book. “Did you read ALL of it,” was always the first question Meg asked, and though the answer was always a somewhat defensive “yes,” Meg was learning to gauge the truth of these responses. The violent bits -- no. Meg was convinced her friend skimmed those. The more--oh, what might one call them, </span>
  <em>
    <span>vivid</span>
  </em>
  <span> passages -- Christine’s coloring told her that yes, she read enough of that to answer truthfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet you read some of it more than once,” Meg teased, and Christine ignored her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not know where you find these books,” said Christine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The same place you find yours,” said Meg, “more or less,” and smiled to herself. Christine sighed, and thought it best to have it over with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” she asked, eyeing Meg, who had been itching to slide the book across the table to her. Meg did so, and Christine groaned as she looked at the cover of the cheap volume. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is--he’s rising out of a grave, this is another one about vampires, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg smiled blissfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he’s going to attack a good many unsuspecting young women, isn’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg really could not explain why this brought her such joy, but she suspected Christine enjoyed the books more than she let on. It was part of their ritual, now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s going to be a disgusting murder in the first twenty pages,” complained Christine.</span>
</p><p><span>“Ten,” said Meg, and smiled sweetly at her. “And you deserve it, too, for I can only imagine what tale of a wretched man being simpered over by a woman who has no love for herself you will select next.”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Oh!” exclaimed Christine.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Just as you simper,” said Meg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>simper</span>
  </em>
  <span>--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will, if given the opportunity. You will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine had claimed that her friend simply refused to like men on principle, and Meg said this was not true as she had conceded that Mr. Darcy was only partially comprised of garbage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still partially? Even at the end? Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg had considered the story and said “He’s alright,” with a nonchalance that infuriated Christine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps something is lost in the translation,” asserted Meg, again. “There is always a chance.” She thought her friend’s interpretation of her faith drew her to stories with supposed redemptions that Meg found tedious, but it was as it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, as Christine eyed the novel--if it could be called that--which Meg had selected, a commotion arose outside the Giry’s parlour window. It was an early hour for anyone to be intoxicated, certainly publicly, but there was a young man stumbling about in the street, having apparently just accosted two greatly offended looking women. A man who happened to be passing was dragging him away by his collar. </span>
</p><p><span>“Christine,” said Meg, with a most sincere and deep conviction in her voice. Her friend looked at her.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Why on earth are you still sitting here?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Christine looked at her with confusion, and Meg raised an eyebrow and looked at her meaningfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christine…go to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the sight of Christine’s irritation, Meg dissolved into a fit of laughter, and Christine threw a napkin at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure an understanding could be reached between you with an hour,” coughed Meg. “His redemption could begin this very night!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot stand you,” said Christine, helping herself to another biscuit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They took a brief walk, while it was still light, and as they crossed the street, Meg gasped and said “Oh--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said Christine, looking straight ahead. “It isn’t going to work. I won’t do it, Meg. You’re not going to make me look. You’re probably--pointing at a pile of shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg laughed delightedly at this, as she liked to influence her friend slightly from time to time -- she would probably ask a higher power for forgiveness this very night for saying that, but that did not make it any less funny in the moment -- and adopted her most sincere tone as she said “You have every reason not to trust me, Christine, but -- oh -- you know when a puppy has grown big but -- not entirely into its paws yet -- I only -- “ and she followed where Meg directed her to stare at a bin that had blown over, and the contents -- crumpled paper, remains of food, and something indefinable but certainly fowl-smelling -- were spilling into the gutter.</span>
</p><p><span>“That’s what you love,” said Meg reverently. “You love that.”<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“When are you going to stop?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“When it stops being funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It stopped being funny a very long time ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. It is funny to me. It is still extremely funny to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They parted ways several blocks down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are terrible, and I have done with you entirely,” said Christine. “You have grossly misrepresented your character.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes,” said Meg cheerfully. The air of the spring evening pleased her, and to be out of earshot of her mother -- whom she loved, but who did not have a sense of humor that Meg had observed as of yet -- made it all the more freeing. Rehearsals for a new production began the next day, and it was the first time she and her friend would perform together. It made for a calming sort of excitement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I must never speak to you again,” said Christine, who had turned and was walking backwards with some caution.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will walk with you at nine,” said Meg as she rounded the corner.</span>
</p><p><span>She did not wish her friend to be any way other than she was, but did think, at the current rate, she could perhaps be persuaded to drink a beer -- just one -- within the next six months.</span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span> <span>Under the right circumstances. </span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meg/Christine/In My Feelings Challenge</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>Meg enjoyed watching Christine watch the opera’s rehearsals. She had taken to joining her in watching even when they themselves had no involvement. Christine only whispered to Meg during the proceedings if there was something she did not think she would remember later, but she usually looked like Meg did when she was engrossed in a particularly exciting -- lurid, Christine would call it -- book. Which she only knew because Christine had pointed it out. That day, Christine had come to see her and had found Meg standing sullenly in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by the sort of things that seemed like they would contribute to a particular sort of biscuit with a spice to it. It was the cook’s day off and Meg, wishing for the treat, had gotten only so far into the process before remembering that she disliked baking of any sort and had no skill at it. Christine had offered to assist her, which they both knew meant she would have it mixed and ready for baking in very little time, and while Christine was measuring out the ingredients, Meg picked up her book. Only to glance at it. Christine laughed at her as she went looking for an additional egg.<br/></span><span><br/></span> <span>“I know that people say ‘edge of your seat,’ but you really are on the edge of your seat. You are going to fall off of it.” </span></p><p>
  <span>Meg kept reading until she heard the oven door shut and Christine sat down at the small table with a teapot and a cup, but only for herself.  “I am not going to clean that up,” she said, when Meg looked pointedly at the single teacup. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> came to return your hat.” It was a fair trade. And though Meg could not see herself reading, she thought her excitement in it must be something like Christine’s when she was watching the operas. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg had not any great interest in the opera herself -- they all seemed to have more or less the same plot to her in a way that ballets did not, but she liked to hear what Christine thought. She had been most curious as to Christine’s opinion on La Carlotta, the opera’s leading soprano. She was very good, of course, but--in truth, her limited experience with the woman had not been pleasant and she wished for someone to agree with her that Carlotta was too old for the roles she played and rather disproportionately vain, all things considered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine had declined to give an opinion, initially. “I have heard a great deal about her, but have not seen much of anything for myself,” she said. Meg sometimes wondered why Christine need be so overly polite when there was no one to overhear her, but could not very well say “I am impatient for you to dislike her as much as I do, that we may discuss it between us extensively” and so she waited. Meg knew that her friend considered her to be kinder than she sometimes was, and did not wish to dispel the notion entirely. It was only that Carlotta was so--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine would see. At some point, she would see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, after Christine had watched and seen the renowned soprano rehearse, at least, as Aida, and Violetta, and Juliet, she said, with some consideration, as they left the opera  -- looking over her shoulder as though she were afraid the diva might somehow hear her -- “It is the same character each time, more or less.” Meg felt triumphant, but Christine appeared to still be turning it over. “Which--” continued Christine. “There is some sense in it for--you are not wrong, many of them do end up in--similar situations.”</span>
</p><p><span>“They all die,” said Meg. “Are there operas where she doesn’t die?”<br/></span><span><br/></span> <span>“It depends on who ‘she’ is, but--they are not so often those which the greatest divas seem to wish to play and--oh, I don’t know. I begin to wonder how much of the season is dictated by the preferences, of Ms. Guidicelli.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“It is not nothing,” said Meg. Christine nodded as though this made sense to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you are right,” said Meg, “she DOES act the same each time.” This was far from her least favorite thing about La Carlotta, but she did not so much care where they began. “For one thing--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And as I said that does make a certain amount of sense--” Christine must be very deep in thought to interrupt anyone, even Meg. “And it is not that it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is as though she has--sort of a--oh, I am no actress myself, nor any kind of singer worth speaking of, I cannot think how to put it. Her voice is--unmatched, I think, and her acting--it is superior to many, not that I have seen so very much but it is--as though she has a certain--pool, or amount, or--within her there is the ability to act it well enough, but only--well enough. No more. No further. And because she seems to like to end quite mad and then die--as would we all, I suppose, at least onstage--she does that part well, and one cannot help but be so taken with the singing that--”</span>
</p><p><span>Meg hadn’t expected Christine to launch into an exploration of Carlotta’s...oh, what was Christine’s word for what she supposed actors did? “Process,” that was it, but her friend certainly listened to her prattle on enough. She could humor Christine. Besides, if she found it tiresome a small percentage of the time, she admired it greatly the rest of it. Christine thought about things. Meg had always enjoyed the company of the rest of the girls in the class, but they did not -- </span><em><span>think</span></em><span> about things in such a way. <br/></span><span><br/></span> <span>“There is no fault to be found with her voice,” concluded Christine, “and her acting is--sufficient. It is only that -- well, think of it, Aida and Juliet do not die in the same way. Yes, they are both in tombs, but you wouldn’t really react to suffocating in the same way that you would react to stabbing yourself, and--”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Christine.” Meg held up a hand. She liked stories full of dark things as much as anyone, but  still. “I am getting the sense that you have spent a great deal of time thinking about different ways of dying.”</span>
</p><p><span><br/></span> <span>“Doesn’t everyone?”<br/></span><span><br/></span> <span>“No.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Christine said this placidly and looked at Meg as though she had no more to say and Meg must pick up the conversation again if she wished to continue. Was this what came of having hardly any girl friends until one had reached a certain age, or was Christine just--like this? Meg had to wonder. She did not like her any less. She merely wondered about things, at times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I see,” said Christine, with a bit of smugness. “I see that there is a right way and a wrong way to be excessively morbid.” She was no doubt referring to Meg’s last contribution to their small book club, which had, Meg could admit, been a bit much. It had contained, she estimated, three to five too many killings. They both looked forward to the coming expansion of their party. Another girl--somewhat quiet, though not so much as Christine--had overheard them one day and, drawing a breath before proceeding, mentioned that she had rather a large collection of mystery books at home. Anna’s older sister had been a great reader and yet left them all when she had been married and gone from the house. Anna had enjoyed reading with her sister and had missed the company when she tried it on her own. There was that. And Christine had now cautiously walked in the park with Meg and Cecily twice. Twice! But now Meg wished to return to the topic she had been waiting for. </span>
</p><p><span>“And the ridiculous sight of her playing Juliet. At her age,” she sniffed.<br/></span><span><br/></span> <span>“I do not know that can be helped,” said Christine. “And I do not think she is a good deal older than anyone else who would be capable of the role.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Is not Juliet supposed to be twelve?!” exclaimed Meg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know as well as I do that the only children of that age are scampering about as part of the chorus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is another thing I cannot understand so much about opera. The ballet will not allow you to be so very old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nor will it allow you to keep feet that function altogether if you keep at it too long,” Christine observed mildly. Meg knew she was beginning to have trouble with her feet, and that it worried her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But these operas--all of these women are supposed to be somewhat young, or almost all of them, and yet no one who--looks--like that at all is ever singing the lead role!”</span>
</p><p><span>“It takes a good many years for one’s voice to be able to even attempt it,” sighed Christine, and Meg wondered that someone who seemed to know so much about it could really not do it, as Christine insisted she could not. She had never told Christine that she had heard her singing freely when she believed herself to be alone. She felt as though she had missed whatever the right moment for that would have been, although she had not meant to intrude on a private moment that Christine was having with -- herself? The memory of her father? Now Christine was looking at her somewhat strangely, and Meg returned to the present moment.<br/></span><span><br/></span> <span>“Surely it might be played by someone closer in age to -- yourself, perhaps? It cannot be impossible--”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps not but I can assure you it is not for me.” There was a sharpness to this that surprised Meg, but tried not to take it personally.  Meg had a sense about Christine’s singing. That what she had overheard, and was not meant to overhear, was merely the edge of something. Perhaps she was not meant to be any sort of great star, or diva, but--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it hurt you to sing,” asked Meg, unable to stop herself as she often was, and Christine stopped walking suddenly. She did not look at Meg, but she did not look angry.</span>
</p><p><span>“Why would you ask that?” <br/></span><span><br/></span> <span>“Because I wonder about it.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Christine nodded, and looked ahead. Meg was aware that if they did not move soon they might begin to create an annoyance around them, for they were not the only ones on the street, but she looked to her friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does,” said Christine quietly. “It does.” She began walking again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked in silence until they reached the point where they usually parted ways. It wasn’t an angry silence -- Meg could tell that much -- but it made her uncomfortable all the same. It was all she could do not to begin chattering about Cecily’s new hat, or her excitement at Anna’s joining their reading club, or what she had overheard from one of the chorus members at rehearsal. It would make it worse if she chattered. She did not always realized that until it was too late, but she realized it now. She willed herself silent. It was like holding her breath. She realized that she was walking past the point where she usually took her leave, with Christine to the door of the house of Madame Valierius, but it seemed an awkward thing to stop now, and her friend seemed content enough to walk with her in silence. The silence lasted until Christine made her way up the steps of the front of the house, and then turned to look back at Meg. It was not uncommon for Christine to look somewhat wistful at any given moment, but just now it was something beyond sadness. When she thought about it, later, she would realize that the better word, the correct word, was grief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been several years, Meg knew, and the old woman Christine lived with seemed very kind and most extremely reverent toward the memory of Christine’s father, but -- perhaps -- perhaps that was not always best. There had been moments, as of late, when the sadness had seemed to leave Christine entirely -- listening with rapt attention to Cecily’s stories, pointing out things she noticed in rehearsals to Meg if she thought she could do it without being heard, pride and even elation when she moved closer to mastering a movement in class -- only moments, but they did exist. Meg had seen them. She was sure she had not imagined them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do smells take you places,” she heard Christine say, and looked up. Her friend had fixed the same slight smile on her face as she had the night Meg had first offered to assist her, the kind that just prevented tears -- women knew this -- and for a moment Meg was filled with a terror that the past several months would reverse and everything would go backwards and after the night in the rehearsal room played out again, only the wrong direction, Christine would -- disappear, into some sort of void. It would be as though she had never existed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--I don’t know exactly what you mean,” said Meg. It was the truth. She felt she ought to know. Christine had her own sort of language at times. Meg should know what she meant by now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You smell something you have not smelled in some time and -- there you are in it, again,” said Christine. “Wherever you were the last time you smelled it. Perhaps it is something baking, or a certain person’s perfume, or -- salt. Sea air. Do smells never take you back? Away?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They do,” said Meg quickly. She suspected it did not happen for her so much as it did for Christine, and was beginning to realize that was the case with a good many things, but she understood the general idea. Yes. “Yes, they do,” said Meg, again. She wanted to be sure Christine heard her, for she was not entirely sure that she had when Meg first answered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can be very overwhelming,” said Christine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” returned Meg, again, hoping that she would find something else to say. Here again. This was -- not a thing she was often overwhelmed by. Perhaps not at all, that she could remember. But she believed it was true for Christine often enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can have a great deal of power to it, and for me,” Christine paused, and swallowed. Even if it should not matter, because she was standing on the front steps of a house on a quiet street, with no one looking at her or listening to her but her friend, she was determined not to cry. This, Meg recognized, and felt, all too deeply. Christine bit her lip before continuing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To sing is like that. But--so much stronger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused again. Sometimes, to will yourself not to cry was like willing yourself not to be sick. It required everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so much worse."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg felt the wrong thing to say rising within her before it could escape and regretted it as it did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But is it not at times pleasant to go back and to--remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thought Christine had described a very happy childhood. When she had chosen to describe it. Now Christine focused on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she said. “Because then you know it’s coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine made the familiar sort of head turn that said she couldn’t hold it back any longer and moved to go into the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am so sorry,” said Meg, behind her, and Christine did turn and look back at her. It was a genuine smile, this time, even if she had stopped fighting her tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be.” Christine shook her head. “It is--I merely need to--I do not know. But. I will see you tomorrow. And we will have rehearsal. And we will walk in the park.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slipped so easily between the forced smile and the real one and to see it it would have been grotesque if Meg had not done it, felt it, so many times herself.  Christine reached out her hand, open, and then closed it, and went into the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For her part, Meg went to her home, and when her mother opened her door without knocking and demanded to know what she was carrying on about -- truly, a girl simply could not cry in the dark in peace in her own home -- Meg all but screamed “I do not KNOW” at her, which was enough for her mother to shut the door, loudly, and retreat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was very far from the most mature response she could have offered. And it was not the thing to say if she wished to be left alone and never discuss it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it was, ultimately, the truth. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>